Switched
by Hannaadi88
Summary: Feeling fed up with his life, Arthur decides to find a spell that would improve his situation. But then everything goes wrong and leaves him and his friends in awkward positions. Can he really change fate?
1. Prologue

**Switched**

~0~

_Prologue_

_

* * *

_

Making his way up the stairs from his basement, England let out a labored grunt. The load he was carrying was heavy, and the Anglo nation was not used to physical exertions late at night.

Reaching his destination, Arthur quickly laid the book down on the kitchen table, sighing in content as he felt his muscles relax. Slowly, he sat down and gazed at the heavy piece of literature. The cover was etched with faint images of circles and half crescents, almost invisible due to the scarce light. Flames from scattered candles illuminated the room as much as they could.

The Englishman gave a quick glance at his watch. Almost midnight. He grinned, slowly opening the book. _The perfect time to cast a spell. . ._

A respectable gentleman would be in bed by now, safe and cozy in his bed. At most times, the term 'respectable gentleman' would mean a lot to Arthur and his efforts to maintain it usually shadowed everything else with its importance. But now his actions, as much as he would hate to admit, were less than respectable. He refused to acknowledge his motives as he flipped through the pages, trying to find the appropriate spell.

After a few moments of searching, he found what he was looking for. "Better Life Spell" he read at loud. Blushing at the cheesy name, England scowled. It sounded like one of those trashy television programs Alfred insisted on watching every day, in which a family shamefully begs for help. Then, someone would come and magically transform their lives in front of the camera. _What people would do for 5 minutes of fame and rating these days,_ England found himself pondering. Those were the type of people he detested the most- those who could not help themselves.

And yet, that was exactly the situation he found himself in.

His life was a mess- period. He was constantly being picked on, verbally abused, underestimated and teased. His cooking, if he was truly honest with himself, was not fit for consumption. And worst of all, his so-called allies chose to rub his faults in his face every day. So how could you blame him for wanting a change? He continued reading, anger renewed at the memory of his position.

_He who casts this spell shall change his life, surroundings and the general opinion of him in other's eyes._

"Just what I need."

_The spell is complicated, and it is strongly advised not to be cast by an apprentice._

"Brilliant that I am not one then, eh?"

_To cast this spell, one must wait until the stroke of midnight for elementary benefits. If cast at any other time, side effects and unwanted results may occur._

England glanced once again at the clock anxiously. A minute to midnight.

_To change your life for a day only, say the following words slowly and clearly-_

"One day only? I should have known. . ." England sighed; No spell was perfect.

The clock struck twelve. Arthur gulped. _It's now or never... _"_O intercambio de corpos por un día, por favor, presta os seus elementos axudarlle_."

Silence. England glanced around the room- nothing had changed. What was wrong? Had he not spoken the words correctly? Was it simply not meant to be?

Sighing, the Englishman stood up and was about to close the book and head off to bed when a sudden gust of wind burst through the window and blew out all of the candles, leaving the nation in complete darkness. Before being able to panic or react at all to the eerie occurrence, Arthur felt his head spin. Groaning, he fell to his knees, trying to grasp onto the ground in attempt to stable himself amidst the constant swirling of his head. At the sudden feeling of sharpness buffeting his head, he gasped and let himself fall deep into the forbidding darkness engulfing his body.

_Beware, for after casting this spell, your soul shall elude your permanent body for a day and visit another's figure. While maintaining your personality, you surroundings and appearance shall alter for 24 hours. _

_The spell is irreversible. _

_

* * *

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_Hanna Chan's Blah-Blah Corner;_

_My first magical fic! Fufufufu~ =W= _

_This fic is actually one I expect to update once a week- and I already have chapter one finished =3= Also, this is my first major attempt at humor-ish content, so don't kill me if it doesn't come out well, eh? _

_So please take good care of moi *bows*, and please don't forget to review! Reviews make the world go round =W= Even a little 'I can't wait for the next chapter" will help my motivation. And I am so sorry to whoever was hoping that this update was a 'Ask Francis' update- I was working on the first chapter of this instead ^^' I promise I will finish it, soon!  
_


	2. The Frog Prince

**Switched**

~0~

_The Frog Prince_

* * *

Groaning, England opened his eyes.

His body was stiff, as to be expected from the previous night's events. But as lifting his body from the ground, something felt strange. His body felt somewhat lighter- more flexible, perhaps. On the other hand, his head felt a bit heavier, like an extra load was added to it when he was unconscious.

_Probably some side effects from the spell. . .but what's with this room? Am I hallucinating?_

Now standing, Arthur surveyed his surroundings (with somewhat sharper eyes, he noticed). Instead of his pale blue kitchen floor, he was standing on blue colored carpeting that spread across the whole floor. A rich cream texture greeted his eyes as he squinted at the wall- a coloring not quite different from his own walls. Aside from those similarities, the room he was in was completely different than his kitchen.

Pictures of scarcely dressed super models (men and female alike) decorated those foreign walls, much to England's horror. A huge canopy bed was placed in the middle of the room with gold and white bedding. Arthur wrinkled his nose in distaste- it was too flashy for him, as comfortable as it looked. Next to the bed was a finely carved bed-stand with golden handles and a glass top.

Other typical bedroom furniture was placed around the room. A closet, a huge mirror and a desk were among the list of unfamiliar objects England's eyes came across. Finally, the Englishman came across a big French flag that adorned the door. Before he was able to think much about it, his train of thought was interrupted as the door opened.

A short, black haired man appeared in the entrance of the room. He was finely dressed- perhaps he was the owner of the strange room he was in- and had a funny little mustache that curled at its ends. England suppressed a laugh. The man, however, did not look amused.

"_Où étiez-vous? J'ai regardé partout pour vous! Vous avez une réunion avec le président de la bientôt.__"_

England blinked. Was that man speaking French to him? The former headache he had crept slowly into his mind as he tried to grasp what the other was saying. It was too early for French.

"I-I'm sorry, but I don't speak French that well. Can you please repeat that in English?"

The man blinked in surprise and frowned. "_Que voulez-vous dire, vous ne savez pas le français? Vous êtes la personnification de la France, bordel de merde!_" At England's confused expression, his features softened a little and questioned the Brit in concern._"__Êtes-vous bien le sentiment, Monsieur Bonnefoy? Devrais-je appeler un médecin?"_

As hazy as his mind was at the moment, he was able to catch and comprehend the word 'Bonnefoy' amidst the fluid French rambling.

"Excuse me, but you have made a mistake. I am not Francis, last time I checked. I am The United Kingdom Of Great Britain And Northern Ireland" He announced with finality.

Whatever pity and patience the other had shown Arthur beforehand had disappeared, leaving instead an exasperated Frenchman. "If you are England, then I am Napoleon," the dark haired man said with a heavy French accent. "And why in the world would you want to be that pathetic nation?" Before England was able to reply to the hurtful comment, the stranger continued.

"Perhaps you would like to refresh your memory, then. Since last time _I _checked, you were The French Republic." When Arthur shook his head fiercely, the Frenchman sighed and gestured towards the huge mirror than hung in the room. "Check for yourself, if you wish. And when you finally come to your senses, please call me." And with that, he left the room.

England scoffed. Why the hell wouldn't he know who he was? He couldn't very well be someone else if he was himself now, could he? With a sigh he ran his fingers through his hair, trying to calm himself. Something was not right, but there was no use getting worked up about something so trivial as identity issues. Besides, it obviously was the Frenchman's mistake. _As if I would ever want to be Francis, anyways. . . _

Arthur froze. The hair his fingers were softly brushing was long and wavy. The way it dangled onto his neck irritated him now- had had always preferred his hair short. Except for the time Francis had taunted him about his unfashionable hairdo and had grown his hair long. Little did he know that he actually had to tend to his hair as well. And speaking of the French bastard, the Englishman suddenly noticed that the shade of his hair was lighter blond than his own.

A sudden wave of apprehension hit him as he made his way towards the mirror. Not that he needed to see himself at the moment- he was sure that he was a terrible mess. And yet, he had this feeling that something may not be completely right. Squeezing his eyes shut in fear of what he would see, Arthur faced the mirror. A few moments of tension passed until he slowly opened his eyes. After a few moments of shock, The United Kingdom stared wide-eyed at his reflection.

Instead of his usual green uniform, a floppy blue shirt and scarlet pants garbed his slightly tanned body. Blue eyes looked back at him in disbelief, blinking rapidly. But worse of all- England noticed- were the stubs of hair that decorated his chin. Shaking, Arthur's hand grazed the new addition to his face. He had not been unconscious long enough to get a facial surgery and grow a beard, he realized suddenly.

There was no use denying it. The form of Francis Bonnefoy stood shaking in front of him in the mirror. _Bloody hell. . ._

What was the meaning of his transformation? Had he even transformed? Seeing that he was in Francis's house, perhaps he had in a bizarre way entered the Frenchman's body? Or was this simply a dream?

He pinched himself. He was still there.

Was it the spell's fault? Had he messed it up somehow? He cursed under his breath- whatever the reason was, he was now in the wine bastard's body. He had to get out of it, somehow, less he be mistaken for, god forbid, the actual Frenchman. He had to get back to his house and reverse the spell before something terrible happened.

Taking one last look around him, Arthur made his way down the staircase. He had been in France's house before- willingly or not. But as he rushed out of the house, it suddenly occurred to him that he had not recognized the Frenchman's bedroom to be what it was. _No surprise there- I have never even been in his bedroom._

That last thought made him pause. From all of the nations, it was Francis's bedroom he would have been the most likely to see. And yet, he had never been invited (or forced) to see it. Why wouldn't Francis want Arthur to see his bedroom, the Englishman wondered.

Shrugging it off like an unwanted burden, England continued his way through the streets, trying to ignore the feeling of the wind in his now long hair. Having walked that street before, the Englishman settled into the comforting sense of familiarity. Aside from his undesirable situation, the rest of the world seemed to flow naturally and without hesitation.

_So I'm the only one who is screwed up, hm? Nothing new about that_, he mused darkly. _Besides, I think I did the spell correctly. Why would I be stuck in this body, then? Is this how my life is supposed to get better- by sharing this bastard's frame? Is someone deliberately trying to humiliate me be suggesting that Francis has it better than I do? . . . Bloody nora, it's probably true. No point in rubbing it in, though._

"Stay away from that man, Annabel! You don't want him _touching _you, do you?"

Arthur looked around in surprised; trying to spot the man the woman had warned her daughter of. No one but himself was out so early in the morning, and he hadn't expected anyone to see him. But before he was able to ask the woman who she was talking about, she had already disappeared, clutching her daughter's hand and pulling her away as well. _Who was the perv-_

It then came to him. _He _was the pervert the mother hand warned her daughter about. England had almost forgotten that he was stuck in the Frenchman's body, and that everyone would probably mistake him for the bastard. _So this is the feedback he has to face each day, eh? It's his blasted fault, _he reasoned smugly. _You reap what you sow- if you harass people, it's no wonder they would treat you like a leper. _

Even so, after a series of similar responses from the people he had past, Arthur couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for his neighbor. No one seemed to give him a chance at saying a simple greeting before they would run away.

Deep in thought, the Englishman didn't notice that he had taken a wrong turn, and was now approaching a Spanish-styled courtyard. He was quickly pulled out of his thoughts as two voices pierced the eerie silence.

One of them, he suddenly realized with a sickening feeling, was his.

~0~

As he entered the courtyard, two figures were standing next to one of the walls. One of them, Arthur noticed in shock, was him. That is, his original body. The other was Russia.

_What the hell. . .?_

It had never occurred to him that someone else might have inhabited _his own _body. He mentally slapped himself for his stupidity- if he was in France's form, why wouldn't someone else be in his form? The real question was, though, _who _was in his body. To answer that question, the Englishman decided to silently observe the scene.

Russia, during Arthur's long inner debate, had pushed the Englishman to the wall and started whispering in his ear. Arthur watched in horror as he saw himself blush scarlet and wiggle out of the Russian's grasp. Ivan simply chuckled and continued leaning heavily on the Brit. The other had probably said something, Arthur observed, and that had suddenly made the Russian's light mood dark as he straightened himself and pulled England by the wrist forward.

"Why won't you simply admit that you have something to do with this, _Angleterr_e?"

England was about to reply when they heard a sudden gasp. Arthur had taken a step forward to hear their words better when he heard the Russian speak a bit of French. What happened to his usual 'da'? And from when had he started speaking that terrible language?

When the two others turned to face the intruder, Russia's face paled and eyes widened in confusion. The Englishman, on the other hand, blinked in surprise and then smiled. He walked up to Arthur and pleasantly struck a conversation.

"So how are you, Francis? Feeling strange today, perhaps?" Arthur could see the other's eyes narrow in suspicion.

"N-no, England," the name didn't sound right coming from him, as it wasn't every day that you spoke to someone who looked exactly like you, but with a mind of it's own. "Thank you, but I am feeling perfectly fine today."

Deciding that been scrutinized by himself was not something he liked, Arthur turned to leave. But as he turn, he noticed that the Russian was still frozen to the spot he had seen him last, gaping at Arthur. Deciding that that did not suit him as well, the Englishman gave an uncomfortable shrug and left the side courtyard. Stepping into the street was like stepping out of a dream. Only this was a nightmare.

Now, to get to his house and wake up permanently.

~0~

"Oi, pretty boy! Over here!"

Arthur turned around. Spain, and another guy- what was his name? Prussia? Were sitting at a cafe table under a huge umbrella. They were licking ice-cream cones and sitting lazily in their chairs, looking at him.

Having had nothing to eat since the morning, and after that unsettling encounter, Arthur was starving; even a bit of frozen cream would do. Trying to hide his disgust as he walked over and sat in between the two, the Englishman ordered from an Italian waiter a cup of strong coffee. His companions looked at him in confusion. "Thought you hated your coffee strong, Frenchie. What woke you up on the wrong side of bed this morning?"

Arthur cursed himself for his carelessness. He was not in the mood to explain to everyone that he was not really Francis and then earn suspicious looks like he had gotten from the French guy in the morning. It would be much easier to simply play charades until he found a way to return to his previous self. For now, he had to act like France usually did.

It was going to be a long day.

He was about to come up with an excuse when Antonio gestured excitedly at a random passerby- an attractive, brunette girl. "So, how many points would you give her?" Arthur's previous actions were now completely forgotten.

Gilbert sniffed dismissively and pointed his thumb down. "Totally not my type. What says you, Francis? Would you take her home with you?" Arthur blushed, about to shout his disapproval when he stopped, checked himself and breathed in. "Well, I suppose she is. . .cute?" he offered hesitantly.

Gilbert frowned and was about to comment when another girl, a blond with a big chest, this time, walked past them. The Prussian smirked and gave a loud whistle, hiding under the table before the girl could turn around to see who had whistled. Arthur, mortified, blushed a deep shade of red. But before he could reproach Gilbert for his ungentlemanly behavior, the girl had rushed up to him and slapped the Englishman hard, screamed a "You perverted bastard! Stay the hell away from me!" and stormed off.

Arthur looked around him and saw that he was the only one at the table. But a few seconds latter, two heads popped out from under the table and started laughing hard. "Did you see her expression when she figured out who it was?" "That's nothing! Did you see _Francis's _expression when he realized that she was going to slap him?" The two burst into a second round of laughter. "Priceless", they both agreed.

The Englishman's temper fired up. What type of people did the French bastard spend his time with? And what exactly did he do with them? A sudden image of the three of them ganging up on a poor passerby sent shivers up his spine. Hungry or not, he would not spend one more minute in their company. "I-I have to go." He mumbled and quickly got out of his chair. A couple of hasty steps afterward, and he was gone. Gilbert and Antonio looked at each other in mild surprise and shrugged. They had more important things to do than try to figure out the Frenchman.

~0~

Arthur collapsed on the king size double bed and groaned in frustration. On his way to elude Prussia and Spain, the crazy Frenchman he had met earlier that day found him and dragged him back to the house, mumbling incoherent curses- in French, most likely. He had been pushed into France's bedroom forcefully, not before attending a long lecture, which he had not understood a word of. The Frenchman (apparently, the housekeeper) had shot him a sad look and shook his head before shutting the door firmly behind him.

Before the Englishman could rush out the door again, he heard a faint clicking noise as the door was locked from the outside.

_Sodding bastard! Thank god **I** don't have someone controlling every move I take . . ._

Now, lying on the bed, England's head buzzed with a mild headache. He may have exchanged bodies, but his usual health conditions seemed to follow him wherever he went. _Brilliant._

As the warmth and comfort of the bed enveloped him, a pang of loneliness cut through Arthur's chest. Everyone he met seemed to have been on his case that day. How did Francis survive it on a daily basis? Guilt flooded his body as he remembered his daily jabs and laughs on the Frenchman's account. He never once had considered the effect they may have had on his neighbor. But how could he have? Francis was always smiling, always happy. . . Or was it simply a mask?

The Englishman slowly got off the bed and started exploring Francis's room. Walking past the French desk, Arthur paused. A picture of him and Francis in a rare moment of peace was tapped to the fine wood. England sat down to look more closely at the strained smile on his face. On the other hand, the smile on the Frenchman's features was genuine; somewhat relieved. What could he have been so relieved and happy about, he wondered.

A man of ideals, Arthur would shun anyone who breaks the unwritten degrees of privacy. But not being himself at the moment, he felt somewhat less ashamed as curiosity overcame him. He rummaged through the desk drawers, careful not to make a mess. His fingers touched a hard substance, unlike the other fragile papers he found. Gently he pulled it out, his eyes widening as he glanced at the cover of what it appeared to be- a book.

But it was more than a book, he realized with a jolt. It was a diary. _France's _diary.

Slowly opening it, England flipped through the pages with burning curiosity until he reached the latest entry.

_Cher diary,_

_I do not know what is wrong with moi. It seems that all I ever do is hurt others. My boss, my friends. . . even Angleterre. I simply approached him this morning and said hello. The next moment, I was on the floor, looking up at Angleterre while he screamed at moi._

Arthur felt his stomach tighten in guilt. He had been in a bad mood yesterday- a mood that had led him to cast the spell in the first place- and as usual, Francis had been the victim of his anger.

_I decided then and there to change, diary. If everyone is angry at moi, I must be the one with the problem, non?_

_I must confess, though, that changing oneself is not so easy. But a few hours after I made that decision, I was out at the Euro club with Antonio and Gilbert. I got a little drunk, perhaps, and met this gorgeous redhead. Oui- really beau. We left the building and-_

The Englishman felt his face redden as he skipped the next couple of lines. Whoever Francis screwed was his own concern, right? And yet, it hurt him a bit to read about the other's sexual misadventures, though only god knew why.

_-She was enjoyable and fun, but not someone I would like to see again. She will never be as good as him. Perhaps, when I gain enough courage and prove myself, I would be able to walk up to Angleterre and finally confess my_

Arthur blinked. Whatever happened to the rest of the sentence? He was confused and surprised- Francis had truly thought that the Englishman was better than that girl he was, _ah_, with? And what was it he had wanted to confess to him? He suddenly felt very tired. Closing the diary with a sigh, he approached the bed and wedged himself under the covers.

With this glimpse into France's life, could he really honestly say that his own fortune was so terrible?

* * *

_Hanna Chan's Blah-Blah Corner;_

_So there you go- chapter 1 of 'Switched'. Did you like it? I am trying for once not to get too mushy and angsty- it was really hard not spelling out France's life woes in his diary part. But I promised myself that I would keep this as lighthearted as I could._

_Next chapter, we shall find out what the hell happened to Francis :D Him being him, it will probably be a bit more. . . interesting than this chapter ;3 All I will say is that it will be most surprising and silly. God- did I just say 'silly'? ;A; I don't write silly things! A Oh, well. There is a first time for everything._

_So please review this if you bothered reading it until the end! It really means a lot to me- it would to you, wouldn't it? ^^'_

_-Hanna_

Translations

_Où étiez-vous? J'ai regardé partout pour vous! Vous avez une réunion avec le président de la bientôt.= _Where were you? I looked everywhere for you! You have a meeting with the president soon.

_Que voulez-vous dire, vous ne savez pas le français? Vous êtes la personnification de la France, bordel de merde!= _What do you mean, you do not know French? You are the personification of France, Goddammit!_  
_

_Êtes-vous bien le sentiment, Monsieur Bonnefoy? Devrais-je appeler un médecin?= _Are you feeling well, Mr. Bonnefoy? Should I call a doctor?_  
_


End file.
